


Work in Progress

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: 2nd Time Around (TMNT 2014) [10]
Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (2014), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Confrontation of the Ex's, F/M, Family Dinners, Family Dynamics, Family Gatherings, Gen, Past Break-Ups, Past Relationships, Secret Relationships, Turtle-Human Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 05:18:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7963957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>April loses her cool when an uninvited guest ruins Family Night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Work in Progress

**Author's Note:**

> Just a fun little scene; writing April as anything less than a refined young lady was rather enjoyable. Poor thing. I'll be kinder to her in the next segment.

It is a matter of principle and self-preservation (mostly for her sanity, but also health reasons) that April O’Neil does not keep caffeinated beverages in her refrigerator. The closest nod she gives to artificial energy is in the form of hot cocoa during the winter holidays, and that’s it. College years and part-time jobs were survived through iron-rod determination. The hectic and unnatural hours of a news reporter were managed by taking cat naps in the van, while waiting for an interview, and even (though she caught grief from the boss for a month) in the studio backroom. She doesn’t do coffee. She doesn’t do energy drinks or soda. She drinks tea in Sensei’s presence because there are soothing remedies to his particular brew and it would be unfathomably rude to refuse the offer. 

But that’s it. Nothing else. Don’t ask for it; she doesn’t have it. Her refrigerator is a dominion of health and nutrition, with a few indulgences stocked away for emergencies (or just because she feels like enjoying a brownie here and there), and she enjoys keeping it this way. 

Consequently, whenever one has a sanctuary established according to a specific code, there is always someone else who takes great strides to corrupt the order.

“You ask the same question every single time we go shopping, Angel.” She says, ignoring the pouting brown eyes to her left, and sets about choosing a handful of tomatoes. “The answer isn’t going to change, especially when I know you just asked Celine the same thing before we came.”

“She didn’t specifically say _no_ …”

“True.” Celine, impeccable timing as always, strolls up to the grocery cart with two fat heads of lettuce in each hand. “I believe my exact words were, _Absolutely not_ , followed by, _Stop asking or you’re grounded for a month_.”

Angel’s pout deepens to comical proportions. “You’re abusing your authority.” She whines at Celine. “Now that the adoption’s finalized, you know I have to do what you say.”

“Strange words for the young lady who stormed into the caseworker’s office and—what was it again? Oh yes,” April’s smirk grows under memory’s influence, “Threatened to use _inside resources_ to hack the poor woman’s personal email address and send every embarrassing photo to her boss, unless she hurried up the adoption process.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a good thing I didn’t have to follow through on the threat.” The redhead hoists herself up on the cart’s left side and plays with the laws of physics until Celine gives her a look. “Since _your_ boyfriend wouldn’t even _think_ about doing me a favor.”

“Indulging the impatience of young ones isn’t something Don does on a regular basis, thank you.”

“He hacked the NYPD system for you.”

Now, Celine cups a hand over her charge’s mouth. “Let’s not announce that in public.” She reminds, with enough edge to her voice that Angel knows to retreat in peace. “Now, run down to Aisle 9 and find three bags of tortilla chips.”

“Three?” April repeats, once Angel has darted out of the produce section in a blur of red and orange. “Are we feeding an army?”

“Might as well be.” The blonde shrugs, pushing one hand through her hair before making for the sweet peppers. “The boys would eat us out of house and home if we let them.”

Family meals have become a tradition, over the past few months. The girls set a date, plan a meal, go buy the ingredients, prepare the dishes and set the table…and the boys eat. And eat. And eat some more. Then the girls relax in the living room while Sensei quietly oversees the boys’ clean-up efforts in the kitchen. A chaperone for washing dishes wasn’t an initial part of the plan, but after one-too-many broken dishes and Mikey nearly ripping April’s sink faucet out with an overzealous gesture…supervision became necessary.

Angel returns with the three bags of chips in one hand, the ingredients for homemade queso stuffed haphazardly under the other arm, and mouth full of a half-eaten donut plucked from the bakery. Only after she notices both women staring at her does she swallow and lift an eyebrow. “What?”

“You’re going to eat a feast in a few hours.” Celine says; the maternal role fits her quite nicely, and she’s taken to it with barely an effort.

“Th’s a few ‘ours. ’m hungry now.” Angel says, words slurred around her next bite (this one leaves a smear of raspberry jelly across her upper lip), and deposits the rest of her spoils into the cart. “What’s,” she swallows, twice, “next on the list?”

Celine sighs and makes a quiet comment about Angel’s lacking manners. April isn’t disinclined to argue the point, but she’s also personally witnessed Mikey attempt to cramp a medium-size pizza in his mouth, in one bite, before Sensei’s most impressive glower made him backtrack (she walked out of the room at that point) and start over. By comparison, Angel making short work of a donut is almost polite.

***

Cooking for these things is, to an extent, a losing proposition. Half her time is spent searching for ingredients. The other half is spent keeping Angel from “sampling” the dishes mid-preparation (the girl acts like she never eats a solid meal in her life). And somewhere in between, there’s the actual cooking and mixing and fixing. It all gets done, has for the last six months, but she’s honestly not sure how. Perhaps there are little gremlins working for good in her kitchen.

From behind, she’s wrapped securely in the embrace of two muscled arms and brought to an equally muscled chest. His presence sends a pleasant ripple down her spine, and she forgoes the deviled eggs for just a moment. “Hi there.”

“Hi yourself.” Leo murmurs, kissing a slow path along her hairline. His skin feels slightly cooler than usual, and a bit damp. The salty tinge of sweat is absent, so she can only conclude it’s from the rain outside.

“You’re early.” She notes, returning to her dish; he accommodates her with some minor maneuvering. “Were you bored?”

“Some of us.” He answers with dry amusement, and she can only assume he’s referring to the youngest sibling who seems to be conspiring with Angel about the best way to test-taste without rousing suspicion (too late on that count). “And, to be honest, it gets dark earlier this time of year. Helps with cover.”

She hums in quiet agreement, attention slipping away from his words and instead to the way his fingers are gliding slowly through her hair. “You better stop that.” She sighs, nevertheless tilting into his touch. “Or we’ll make a scene in here.”

She hears the purr in his tone, when he mumbles something about self-control (like he’s one to talk, after the way he practically pounced her over the window sill last week), but he lets up enough that her focus isn’t slipping away every five seconds. They can pick this up later tonight.

*** 

Under the tutelage of someone who’s done this for a living all sixteen years of life, she swipes a bit of fresh bread off the counter, sneaks a sampling of queso dip while April is otherwise occupied, and is in the process of picking a couple mini-corndogs (fresh from the oven) when a distinct clearing of throat upsets her balance. Green Boy catches her around the waist, but the gesture is a little too sudden and her response is too jerky. They don’t quite hit the floor in a jumbled mess of limbs, but the jig is up. The look on Sensei’s face says as much.

“If you are so terribly bored,” he says, “perhaps you might alleviate the symptoms by preparing the table for our meal.”

It’s the kinder way of saying, _Let the adults work in peace_. It’s also Sensei’s way of putting her in charge of keeping Green Boy out of trouble. She’s not sure why _she_ always gets the honor of babysitting duty.

“No, no, no,” she says, five minutes later, when Mikey is trying to give the table settings an “eclectic” (she highly doubts he even knows what that word means) look, “Just put them like they’re supposed to be.”

“What’s wrong with this?” he protests, gesturing with pride at his masterpiece: fork and knife balanced above the plate like a steeple, adorned by two napkins. It looks like they have little teepees set up around the table.

She rolls her eyes. “You locked the knife inside the fork tongs. We’ll need construction equipment just to get them loose, just so we can eat.”

“It’ll make things interesting!”

“It’ll make the food cold while we wrestle with silverware.”

He zips around the table in record time, checking twice to make sure everything is perfectly in order and set according to tradition. At least the boy has his priorities straight.

***

“You wanna come?”

“Do you _want_ me to come?”

“I asked first.”

“ _I_ asked the more logical and well-reasoned version of the question.”

Raphael grumbles something incoherent under his breath, then leans back against the wall with arms crossed tight. “You always gotta be so damn pig-headed?”

Her eyebrows bounce a little, and her lips give that little smirk he always stares at a second too long to be casual. “You want to be the pot or the kettle?”

Now he rolls his eyes (very mature). “Just answer the question: you comin’ or not?”

“I’m fairly certain you don’t want a family event ruined by uninvited guests.” Karai replies, slowly stretching free of the covers and then collecting the various clothing articles tossed haphazardly around the bed. “You’re already going to catch it from your brothers for being late.”

His eyes are busy ogling her, but then he grunts something indiscernible and follows suite. “Long as I show up before the real meal begins, no one cares. Right now, they’re just bustin’ up the kitchen and trying to keep Ding-Dong from ‘sampling’ too much. Probably the redhead too.” He adds, as an afterthought. “Regular Bonnie and Clyde, those two.”

She pauses, and when she resumes the process of redressing, her fingers have lost a bit of their swiftness. “…How is she?”

“Hmm?”

“Angel.” She pulls the cotton shorts up her legs a little too roughly, and winces when she feels a couple seams pop. “How is she?”

“You could ask her yourself.” He answers, followed by, “Where the hell is my bandana?”

She crouches down, retrieves it from under the mattress (they found a new use for it tonight), and tosses it at him before answering, “I just told you, I’m not going.”

“I meant, stop by her school.” He retorts, in such a way that she momentarily feels stupid for not understanding him the first time. “We can’t hover over her twenty-four-seven. Just swing by one day and…whatever you girls do.”

She swings her leg wide and pops him behind the knees. “If you want access to this bed again, don’t call me a girl.”

“So I can’t call you _my_ girl?”

Her mouth opens, witty comment prepared and ready to launch, and then she catches sight of his expression. It’s uncommonly serious—too serious, really, for their post-romp bantering—and she feels her heart skip a couple beats. Such is becoming a frequent occurrence lately. She’s not sure how she feels about it yet.

“I suppose, if you were so inclined,” she says, pulling her tank overhead, “I wouldn’t deck you for it.”

***

He stops by the 24-hour convenience store on 12th street—April has a thing arranged with the storekeeper; a “don’t ask, don’t tell” deal about various items disappearing from the back room at odd hours, so long as she compensates him with extra cash—and swipes a double-pack of orange soda for the little redhead. Girl knows how to put away a can of liquid caffeine like no one’s business.

In an extra-extra-extra-large plaid shirt and the one pair of denim big enough to fit around his hips, he doesn’t have much concern about taking the back way to April’s place. It’s dark enough, and this is a decent neighborhood (kudos to Donnie) where most people don’t look twice at strangers unless they give off a real nasty vibe. Besides, jeans don’t work real well over rooftops. He’s almost split a few seams trying.

Of course, getting in April’s loft requires rooftop access (he’s too big to fit through the staircase), so he fits the soda between his chest and the wall, gets his footing, and starts heading up. The cardboard case digging into his front and the denim hanging heavy on his legs make for a slow climb, and not the most comfortable one. But hey—no pain, no gain.

Inside, he can hear music and laughing. No doubt Mikey is showing off some new dance moves, hence all the laughing. At least they’re playing some decent tunes. Maybe April even managed to snag Donnie for a dance or two.

He doesn’t know why Donnie insists on drifting back and forth between the lair and the loft. He oughta just stay in place at April’s. They’re practically married, for cryin’ out loud.

A door on the roof is the usual point of entry, if there’s reason to avoid the windows. He prefers the latter, because the door’s a tight fit and the hallway to get inside April’s place is even tighter, but he just noticed a couple walking their dog across the street (a cute little furball, come to think of it, who barks at the motorcycle parked nearby), and if they see someone sneaking in through a window…bad news. The door it is. At least now he can (literally) get the soda crates off his chest.

He takes three steps towards the door, stops, and swivels back in place.

That bike was parked here when he passed April’s place (en route to Karai’s, but if anyone asks, he was getting fresh air) last night. And, if he racks his memory hard enough, he’s fairly certain he remembers that same bike two nights before, during a last-minute game night, driving by real slow. …But maybe he’s wrong? It can’t be the only bike in this block, right—?

Wrong. He recognizes the skull spray-painted across the engine cover. It’s the same one.

Alright, two options: 1) Mention it to April and let her handle it, or 2) take a quick detour and pummel this guy into a smear on the sidewalk.

…He’s already late. And the soda might go bad in the time it’ll take for him to cave in a skull. Fine; talk to April it is.

***

True to form, the little redhead rips into the offering and snags two cans—one for her, one for Mikey…fantastic—before chugging hers like it’s a frickin’ contest. Maybe the soda wasn’t such a good idea; now they’ll both be bouncing off the walls all night. ‘Course, they can burn off all that energy cleaning up after dinner. This could work out after all.

He finds Mikey in the kitchen, chatting April’s ear off. He puts a couple cans in the fridge to keep cool, stashes the rest under the counter, and now it’s time for business. “Go caffeinate yourself in the living room, Ding-Dong.” He grunts, jerking a thumb over his shoulder to emphasize the point. “I wanna talk to April alone.”

Mikey whines something about always being left out (not the case, since the little twerp is a first-class eavesdropper) and drags himself extra slow across the floor before Raphael loses patience, catches him by the shell, and flings him (flailing limbs and all) out the door. April’s tucking a smirk in the corner of her mouth, then leans back against the counter. “What’s up, Raph?”

No time for small talk; Num-Nuts is probably inching his way back to the doorway. “You got some stalker with a fancy motorcycle we should know about?”

The change in her expression is almost comical—he’s never seen a smile drop so fast—but the way her eyebrows knit together and her jaw locks definitely isn’t. “What?”

He nods outside the window; she marches forward, separates the blinds with two fingers, and peers into the dark. Five seconds later, her eyebrows are scrunched so tight together, he wonders how she’ll get them unfused. “Son of a…” she growls, in a tone he’s only heard once or twice before, then throws herself back and makes a beeline for the door, throwing a brief, “I’ll be back,” over her shoulder.

He decides to keep an eye out the window. Just in case.

***

Her lessons with Sensei have been very explicit: the way of the warrior is through control. Emotional control. Calculated moves. Deliberate execution in life and in battle. When the warrior loses control, he (or she) loses the driving force behind every thought, word, and action. She knows this. She’s been well-taught for over a year.

It doesn’t stop her this time.

“ _Bastard_!” follows the rapid firing of her fist directly into his face, before he can get a word out. He flies off that precious bike of his and hits the asphalt. It feels good, but not good enough.

“What the hell, April?” he replies, hand protectively covering his nose—at worst, she bruised it; at best, it’s bleeding down his face—while he awkwardly scrambles back on his feet. She lets him get halfway, then she clocks him again.

“ _What the hell_?” she repeats, “How about five years of _what the hell_ , Casey?! You drive off and leave me on the damn sidewalk. No texts! No calls! No postcards! No, _sorry for dumping you like trash_! Then you start blowing up my phone, and now you’re outside my apartment?” She hits him a third time for emphasis (and because it feels good). “What the _hell_ makes you think you can just dump yourself back in my life, huh?”

“Okay, okay!!” he has both hands up in surrender; she’d like to start breaking them too, but with all the racket out here, the guys are probably plastered to the window, half a second away from charging to the rescue. “Are you done hitting me?”

_Not yet_ , she thinks but doesn’t say. A locked jaw and folded arms do the speaking for her, along with a sharply cocked eyebrow. The streetlights are bright tonight, so she can now see the trickle of blood running down his nose. It makes her feel better.

“Where, Casey?” she growls, scrunching her eyes together for a minute. _Get it together, woman. Sensei is probably watching. Act like you’ve been listening to him._ “Where have you been?”

“I told you, babe,” he says, wiping the blood with a hand, and she almost decks him again just for the pet name that isn’t his to give—not to her, never again, “I heard the open road calling.”

She laughs. It feels like sandpaper on her throat, and is devoid of any possible humor, but still she laughs. “No, Casey, that is not what you said. Your exact words were, ‘I need a break.’ Not even ‘I think _we_ need a break,’ just you. _You_ needed a break. And you dumped me like trash on the sidewalk, drove off, and now you strut back into town and think I’ll run into your arms?”

“C’mon, babe—”

“ _Don’t_ ,” she prepares another fist, just in case, “call me Babe. I’m not your babe.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he retorts, like he can’t figure it out on his own. “Not _my_ babe? You got some other guy?”

He actually sounds irritated. He sounds annoyed. He sounds like she’s committed some grievous offense, just because she…and he stands there and…and…and…

“ _AGH_!!” he howls, dropping to his knees; she’s quite certain this blow split her knuckles, but that’s what ice is for. “What the hell—?”

“What was I supposed to do, Casey?” she feels the dam cracking, and if there is something to patch the hole, she can’t think of it. “Stand there on the side of the road, waiting and pining and keeping an eye on the horizon until the day you decided to show up again? Was I supposed to write letters and send them on the wind for wherever the heck you were shacked up for the night? _You_ left _me_! And you thought the day you decided to come back here, I’d be right where you left me? Are you honestly so imbecilic that—?”

“Geez, watch those big words.” He grumbles, wiping another stream from his nose. “Give me a headache, and make you sound like some college girl.”

“I’m a college _graduate_.” She replies, locking both arms over her chest before the temptation to beat him into the ground becomes too much. “And then I held down a job for a few years. And then I started my own business. Funny thing, responsibility. It actually makes people _want_ something out of life!”

“You act like I’m some shifty bum, babe!” he says, ignoring her earlier threat like it didn’t even register with him (probably didn’t). “I’m livin’ life! By my own rules, just the way I like it. You used to be on board with that; what the hell happened?”

_What indeed._ Let’s see. She was left on the side of the road by her boyfriend. She drowned herself in academics and poor health choices. She landed a job as a reporter, working long hours without reprieve. One of the first jobs she got was to interview a serial killer’s daughter. And then…

“I got perspective, Casey.” The anger from moments before feels more like a dull ache at the back of her head, and now she’s just tired. “Our relationship was a mess, and you can’t think it was anything else. We spent more time yelling at each other, breaking up, and getting back together just for the heck of it. There was no love there.”

“Love?” he stares at her like two extra heads just sprouted off her shoulders. “When did _love_ come into this? Yeah, there was no love—we didn’t _need_ love.”

“Maybe you didn’t. Maybe you still don’t.” she answers, pushing both hands through her hair. “But I do. And I’ve found it.”

Silence. She’s used to silence, especially in the middle of a conversation (aka fight) with him. It comes after she’s said something he doesn’t want to hear. And she knows he certainly didn’t want to hear _that_.

“So…that’s it then, huh?” he finally says, leaning back against the bike, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Three, four years…over, just like that?”

“You conveniently keep forgetting the _five_ years, Casey.” She sighs. “And things change in five years.”

“April—”

“I want you to leave, Casey.” Three steps back emphasize the point, and distance her from the hand trying to reach out. “And don’t come back.”

***

The party seems to be in full-swing when she makes her way up the back staircase; obviously, her little scene outside didn’t cause too much in the way of disruptions. _Good._ This is supposed to be a happy time for the family. Her personal drama doesn’t need to ruin that. Ever.

She gets halfway up the stairs and sees Angel waiting for her at the top. The redhead is wearing a rather prominent smirk that’s laced with awed amusement. Whether or not this is cause for concern, April isn’t yet sure.

Five minutes later, inside the bathroom (the only area for short-term privacy), she gets the answer.

“I mean, I’ve seen you against street punks and all,” Angel’s saying, perched on the bathtub (now with a massive grin on her face), “but, I mean… _damn_ , O’Neil. Who know you could deliver such a serious _butt_ -kicking?”

“Don’t feed my ego, Angel.” She sighs, twisting the water dial. “I might actually think I did the right thing— _Sonofagun_ , that stings!!”

Angel peeks around her and whistles. “Nice.” She nods at the bruised and bloody mess that is April’s right hand. “That’ll leave a pretty mark.”

“Your use of irony is most befitting, Miss Thomas.” Sensei’s voice interrupts what was previously light banter, and April’s stomach relocates somewhere in her pelvic region. “If you please, I wish to speak with April alone.”

Angel (unhelpfully) pats her on the shoulder and makes some witty little “Nice knowing you” comment before she zips out the door. April makes a mental note to convince Celine the girl needs culturing. Forcing her to sit through a foreign film marathon should be a good start.

Instinct seems to commandeer her basic motor functions: instead of facing him in an upright position, she turns halfway, sees his piercing gaze considering her in the doorway, and she drops to her knees on the tile floor faster than a piece of lint.

He closes the door with a quiet gesture (her stomach proceeds to sink lower), leans against the wall with a pensive expression, and sighs. “Is there something you wish to tell me, my daughter?”

Her limbs quiver—not at the sound of his voice, but at the use of a title he keeps only for the most important moments between them. The rest of the time, it is an unspoken understanding: an unheard murmur of endearment woven delicately amongst all exchanged dialogue, a warmth present in his amber gaze when he looks at her, a tenderness distinct even in the gentlest of touches.

It makes the way he looks at her now, with those words still lingering in the air between them, hurt all the more.

“Yes.” She whispers. Both hands fist tight in her lap, and she feels like a vice is turning in her belly. “There is.”

“Then tell me, if you please.”

Her eyes are burning. The next time she blinks, there will be no surprise if tears dribble free. “Sensei…you know how I feel about you. All of you. You’re my family. My world. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you guys. I love you. I love all of you, so much. So…so very much…”

It hits her, before the next words can actually drop off her tongue, that this is definitely not the place she ever imagined they would be having this conversation. She envisioned a quiet evening, tucked away in the privacy of his room. The smell of incense light in the air. Candles warming her with their proximity. A cup of fresh tea in both their hands. In her imagination, it was a perfect scene.

But what’s perfection in real life?

Her next breath is a shuddering sigh. Her eyes close, then reopen. The tears fall in thin rivers, warm on her skin. Another breath, and then… “…I just love Donnie a lot more.”

He doesn’t look surprised (nor should he be; they haven’t kept anything a secret, and the day he thinks her capable of playing so cruel a game with his sons is the day she cuts out her heart), but the sharp line between his brows doesn’t smooth out. “And the young man who intruded on your pleasant disposition…?”

“A relationship from five years ago, since ended.” She sighs again; the weight she didn’t even know was on her chest is gone and _boy_ does it feel good. “I made sure of it tonight. If he doesn’t get the hint, his next conversation will be with the boys.”

There’s a finite twitch of his whiskers that almost looks like a smile, but it’s gone before she can check. “Good. Good.” He says, then his eyes drop to her hand. “Gracious, April. Have I taught you nothing? A well-executed blow should never result in such dreadful damage. You’ll be lucky if that doesn’t scar. In fact—Donatello? Donatello!!”

Something crashes in the living room. She sincerely hopes it wasn’t the lamp. It’s an impulse-purchase from the antique store down the street, but she’s become rather fond of it.

Donnie appears in good time. He opens the door without knocking, then remembers himself and recloses it, knocks, and comes in after Sensei grants permission. The first thing he sees is her hand. He freaks out.

“Tend to her, if you would, my son.” Sensei says, half a second after Don races for the kitchen and the sound of cabinets being opened at record speed echoes down the hall. “And as for you,” attention turns back to her with an arched brow, “I expect to see you at sunset, hence forth every evening until I state otherwise. No excuses, my daughter. It seems I still have quite a bit of work to do with you.”


End file.
